


Succor

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Feeding, Feeding Kink, Hand Feeding, M/M, Starvation, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barsad disobeys. Bane gives him a second chance to prove his obedience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Succor

In retrospect, perhaps he had pushed too far. He had completed the task, though, and truly, in his mind, that was all that should have mattered.

But it is a different matter convincing his brother of the same. The air is rushed out of his lungs as he feels himself crushed to a nearby tree, his brother’s thick fingers biting into his shoulders.

"You were told to stand down, Barsad." His brother’s voice is a rough hiss through the mask, a sign of his obvious displeasure.

"I had a clean shot. You cannot expect me not to take it," he spits the words back, feeling his own anger rise if only to help quench the fear and displeasure roiling in his belly over Bane's. It had been a clean mark, though. He had only needed to shoot through the head of one of their lower recruits to take it. No huge loss.

He voices the thought, trying to keep the petulance from his tone. He is not being childish. He simply knows that he was right. It does nothing to placate Bane, judging by the snarl that vibrates through his body and shakes Barsad through to his bones. It is a damning and mortifying thing that Barsad feels his cock twitch in his pants in response to it. 

"Do not think that because you are favored you are above punishment, brother." Bane's mask presses against his ear, and the coolness makes him shiver in the humid air. "What lesson have you taught these men with your actions?"

"That I am better than them," he chokes out, and his fingers scrabble up to clutch Bane's arm when his hand goes to his throat, squeezing it enough to be a warning and for the blood to pool further in his belly.

"Wrong. You have taught them that I am a man to be disobeyed, that I am so poor a leader that even my right hand will not listen to my command."

The heavy lids of his eyes widen and he shakes his head at the mere thought. This was never his intention. "You know. You know I serve only you. That I would follow you to the ends of the earth and back on your command, that I would kill any for you without a moment’s hesitation."

"Of course I know. There is no doubt in my mind, but it is not me you have planted a seed of doubt in, brother, it is them, and now you will have to show them otherwise."

Bane lets him go and Barsad pants, his lungs burning as his knees struggle to remain steady. When his eyes turn up towards Bane, his brother is staring down at him.

"You will not eat again until my order, and if you disobey me in this or any other command, I will punish you in front of them."

Barsad's ears burn at the very notion. His brother does not give punishment in such a way. He kills the men under him that cannot obey or he expects Barsad to do it. For him to threaten this, Bane has seen his actions as a true slight. "Yes, brother."

He is so hungry. It has been nearly two weeks, and Bane has not given him the word, but he will not ask no matter how weak he feels. If this is a test, he will pass it; he will march on with the men, hydrate, and ignore the sick, empty ache in his belly and guts. When the men break the fast of the day, the scent of food makes his mouth water, and he is tempted to go meditate, clear his head, but Bane watches over each meal and he will not leave the men or show weakness in this.

It has been thirteen days and he feels feverish. He wonders if Bane's plan is to starve him to death, for Barsad to do it himself, obediently, as an act of how much power Bane can hold over a man. He is correct in his plan, if it is so. Barsad will do it, with the hope that at least he will die in Bane's favor again. He has been hungry before, but not like this, not when food is in front of him, when he is expected to march through the forest still and lead without wavering. It is torture.

By the fifteenth day, he feels like he might break. That he might grovel before Bane if it would get him just a scrap of bread. His mind wavers in and out of reality as they march through the heat. When the sun sets, the chill in the air is a welcome relief, though it does nothing for his addled mind. He watches Bane as he leans back against a tree for support. He dares not stand without leaning, anymore. 

Bane looks over at him, and it is the first time he has so much as glanced at him in so many days that it makes his heart lurch with hope. He straightens and says nothing, only looks attentive, waiting for any command Bane might give at all.

"Brother. You look weary, come sit with me."

Barsad only nods numbly, trying to prevent himself from stumbling straight into the fire pit that they have been cooking on. He stands still in front of Bane. He is sitting on a fallen stump, flanked by equipment on either side, and Barsad feels like a child, shuffling his feet and not understanding what Bane expects of him. Then Bane's knees part slightly, and he grasps Bane's intentions. A weak indignation rises up in him, but he is too hungry, too tired to care. He drops down to sit in front of Bane, bracketed by his thighs. He freezes at the hand on his shoulder, the slow caress of a rough thumb up his neck.

His brother is wise. Barsad longs for such intimate displays in private, but even a day ago he would have recoiled from such a public claim. But now Bane has defeated him, tamed him without having to strike a single blow against him. He has only used time and his endless patience. Barsad's head dips forward wearily at the press to his nape. He can feel eyes on him and a red flush creeping up his neck when there is a quiet murmur only for his ears, not able to be heard above the crackling fire by their men.

"Good lamb."

He knows that Bane can feel the silent tremor running up his spine at those words. He blinks blearily and barely holds back a gasp when Bane's fingers catch up his hair in a powerful grip. Even weakened, he barely refrains from striking back, only Bane's warning from a week ago stilling him. Disobedience will gain him public punishment, and if this is not what Bane considers a public humiliation, he cannot bring himself to fathom what his brother might do now if he strikes out. The growl in the back of his throat dies out as he is forced to arch back, his throat exposed as he is drawn into his brother's eyes, eyes that can see how he has been tamed.

"Are you hungry, brother?"

Oh, he is, but he is not certain he is willing to pay whatever price Bane is willing to put on a morsel of food. If he says no, though, he may truly be allowed to starve. He licks over his cracked lips slowly and nods, struggling to speak.

"I am, brother."

Bane only nods and lets go of his hair. Barsad grunts when his hand wanders down his stomach, slips under his shirt easily. He discarded his vest as soon as they were done walking that evening, the weight making him struggle further, and now Bane's fingertips travel over his gaunt belly, shrunken with hunger. He seems to consider it a moment before he nods slowly. He releases him, and with a wave of his hand a plate is put into his reach. Barsad must refrain from snapping it from Bane's grip. His brother never eats with the men. This food is for him and he knows it, but Bane only balances it on his own knee. When Barsad lifts a hesitant hand towards it, the look he is given has him jerking it back down to the dirt as if he has been stung.

He casts his gaze back to the ground and feels even further defeated, not understanding what he must do for Bane to lower the plate into his lap. The answer becomes obvious when Bane picks up a juicy hunk of meat from the kebabs they have been roasting and holds it between his fingertips. He is not expected to touch the plate at all. Barsad swallows, already tasting the spices on his tongue, the juices and fat running down his throat to finally fill his belly. He realizes what Bane wants now, though, and surely it cannot be done. Surely he should simply starve first, spare himself such a humiliation in front of these men that he is supposed to show nothing to but fierce prowess. Bane is wise, though. He is weak, and he is tamed, and he is so hungry.

Barsad opens his mouth obediently, and Bane feeds him by hand, slipping the morsel between his lips. Barsad flushes at the grateful moan he cannot hold back when the taste of food finally hits his tongue. He wants to swallow it whole, but forces himself to chew slowly, instead, to savor it. Bane's fingertips remain near his lips, glistening, and when he swallows he is already too far gone not to take them between his lips and suckle them clean with a quiet slurp, soft sucking noises, before they are released. 

Even Bane seems surprised by the motion. He should not be. When Bane breaks him, it makes him forget all else, and it is no different now. He forgets their surroundings, forgets the other men. He is only there for Bane, to obey, to serve. He accepts each bite of food with gratefulness in his eyes, with his tongue curling willingly around Bane's fingers, his teeth scraping them to get every scrap of flavor.

The sweet tang of citrus assaults his senses and a fleck of juice hits his lips. Bane has dug his thumb into a ripe orange, bursting through the skin and ripping off the peel with a flick of his wrist. Barsad licks the bit of juice from his lips and though his stomach is no longer aching, he wants the sweet treat that Bane is holding in his hands. 

When it is not offered, a soft wanting noise bubbles out from him and he is given such a fond look for it. Almost better still, he is given his juicy treat. He licks each tender jewel of fruit from Bane's palm and places a kiss there without thinking, gobbling each wedge of the orange and finally feeling sated and so tired with a full belly and Bane's legs surrounding him, with the warmth of the fire on his skin. He closes his eyes and his head is guided to Bane's thigh, the fingers stroking slowly, possessively across his cheek lulling him to a deep and contented sleep.

Barsad awakens filled with anger and shame. He is on Bane's cot, laid out beside him, and he did not walk there. He barely remembers being picked up like a babe and carried off to nap. When Bane's hand touches him, he shoves it away with a growl. The lesson has been learned. He will never defy him in such a way in public again, but he knows that in private it is another matter and while Bane will do many things to remind him of his place, forcing advances onto him is not one of them.

"You have made me look like your dog." He spits the words out venomously. "Worse, you have made me look like your whore."

Bane only looks patient, waiting for his rage to die down. When it does, he touches his lips. It is not an apology, but it is an acknowledgment of all Barsad has endured for him.

"Then it is your job to show them otherwise. As I have reminded you of your place, you will remind them of theirs."

He nods stiffly and relents when Bane caresses across his throat. A two weeks without his touch has starved him in another manner entirely, and he shifts closer on the cot, wriggles into his space and demands without words to be held and taken.


End file.
